


Smoke and Mirrors

by Kestrel337



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, PWP, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-26
Updated: 2013-06-26
Packaged: 2017-12-16 06:36:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/858988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kestrel337/pseuds/Kestrel337
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John doesn't like Sherlock smoking. Really.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Smoke and Mirrors

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own the characters, I don't make any money from writing this. 
> 
> Smoking harms you, and the people around you. Once hooked, it's a terribly difficult addiction to break. Don't start smoking because you think it's sexy.

John studied the reflection in the dresser mirror, considered the rather startling assemblage of scars. His physique didn’t compare too unfavorably, he thought, to the photograph tucked into the frame. The younger John Watson was leaner, certainly, taut and tan, the smooth planes of his body as yet unblemished by violence and emergency medical treatment. He ran his fingers lightly above the newest acquisition, a long line gliding from the point of his hip to disappear into the waistband of his pants, still irritable and red, warm with the continued healing. He knew well that the human body’s ability to repair itself was an amazing thing. Still, he wished it could do so a bit more...tidily. Leave behind less evidence of miraculously knit flesh, of death narrowly averted. Survival came at the cost, he supposed, of these unattractive and permanent reminders. He gusted a sigh through pursed lips, scraped a hand through grey-threaded blond hair. He would allow himself two more minutes of this ridiculousness, and then it was time to get on with whatever the day, and Sherlock, might bring. Speak of the devil, he thought, as Sherlock threw open the door and breezed into the bedroom. He stopped short, meeting John’s eyes in the mirror. John could see the observations ticking over in that brilliant mind.

 

“You’re melancholy. You’re brooding.” How did anyone, anyone at all, believe this man incapable of caring?

 

“No. No. Well, yes, I was. But I’m done now.” He didn’t quite achieve flippant and casual, but gave himself credit for trying.

 

“You’re thinking that your body is...damaged. Flawed. Imperfect. Unattractive.” 

 

John was tired of being maudlin, weary of moping, so he attempted deflection. Sherlock would see through it, he always did, but sometimes he played along. “Taking off your jacket doesn’t help, you know. The smell gets into your shirt and hair ,too.” He aimed an arch look at Sherlock through the mirror. “You’ve been smoking.”

 

“You like me smoking.”

 

“Nope. Really don’t. Filthy habit.” 

 

“Ah, but there it is. You don’t like that I smoke. You’re a doctor, you know far too much about the risks it brings. But.” Sherlock began stalking toward his partner, slid a hand into the slightly bulging pocket of his trousers. 

 

“You -” A slow step, like a jaguar on the prowl.

 

“Like -” Another step, elegant as a dancer.

 

“To -” His voice dropped slightly lower with each word.

 

“Watch -” Long fingers pulled the pack from his pocket, tapped out a single cigarette.

 

“Me -” He tossed the pack onto the dresser, pulled out a box of matches.

 

“Smoke.” He was pressed up against John’s back now, cigarette drooping insouciantly from pouting lips.

 

“You know I’m right.” His arms slipped around John, one at his waist and one over his shoulder, to strike the match. Reflected green eyes locked onto blue as he leaned forward to light up. John shivered slightly as Sherlock pursed his lips for the inhale, blew the exhale out the corner of his mouth and away from their faces. The matchbox was tossed to the dresser top, the spent match dropped into John’s change dish.

 

“Sherlock.”

 

“And I -” How his voice could get any lower?

 

“Like -” One finger trailed over John’s left shoulder, tracing the lined flesh.

 

“Your -” the opposite hand pulled the cigarette from his mouth, held it between two elegant fingers.

 

“Scars.” Sherlock pursed his lips, pressed a kiss to the point of John’s shoulder. A surge of arousal washed over John’s body from that single point of contact.

 

Then those perfectly bowed lips were parting again, admitting the long thin line of the cigarette, wrapping around the paper and pulling, pulling, pulling, in a deep drag. Sherlock’s eyes drifted closed, savoring the smoke, then his chin lifted and that neck, that endless pale neck, stretched and flexed for a deeply satisfied exhale. 

 

John echoed the sound, breathing deeply as Sherlock’s fingertip slowly circled his tightening nipple, releasing a stuttering sigh when the darkening nub was rolled lazily between thumb and forefinger. 

 

“Your scars, John. These aren’t imperfections.” Sherlock’s fingers moved to the left side of his ribcage, where a wire fence had torn through summer clothes and overheated skin. “These are marks of valor.” Aristocratic fingers brought the cigarette caressingly to his lips, which pursed and pouted in another deep draw and slow, hissing sigh. Middle finger and thumb carried the cigarette to the change dish, even as Sherlock’s other hand drifted over the bullet scar on John’s shoulder. A synchronized tap to scar and cigarette end. “This isn’t a flaw, it’s what brought you to London. To me. I am too selfish to wish away the wound that led to us.”

 

John’s breath came more quickly through his parted lips, that rumbling voice lighting his blood like the burning tobacco, swirling warm and slow through his veins like the smoke that clouded the air between them. In the mirror he could trace the flush of mounting desire from his cheeks, down his neck, watch it bloom across his chest.

 

Again the cigarette was lifted, again Sherlock sucked the end. This time, though, he allowed the smoke to drift slowly out, ghosting the heat over John’s nape. His hand slid over the light pebbling under John’s breast, evidence of a fall on filthy asphalt. “This, John. Looking on this scar is my penance. I will never look on this without regret. Regret for your pain, and gratitude that you found me worthy of forgiveness.”

 

The inhale this time was shaky, comfort sought from chemicals carried from lungs to blood to fractured heart. John reached up and over, cupped Sherlock’s face, traced his thumb along the faint mark silvering one cheekbone. His voice was husky, low, when he said “I’ve regrets of my own, you know.” Sherlock’s breath caressed the inside of his wrist, and he shivered. 

 

“John. My John.” Warm, dry lips brushed his fluttering pulse, followed by the damp flicker of tongue. Sherlock’s free hand ran softly, tenderly over the newest mark. His finger tips dipped into the elastic, stretching it away from the puckering flesh. John’s arousal sparked higher, flaring from low-burn into raging urgency. Desire darkened the hazel eyes behind the glass.

 

“Sherlock...God, Sherlock.” John would never know if his words were praise, or plea.

 

Sherlock, holding the burning ember away from John’s skin, hooked both thumbs into the waistband and tugged the cotton down and away. His knee brushed John’s hip when he lifted a stockinged foot to press the pants down for John to step out of. One hand circled the base of John’s burgeoning erection, the other settling the cigarette between lightly clenched teeth. The tip glowed as he hissed another drag, and his free hand slipped along John’s cock to the rhythm of his inhale, swirling his thumb over the tip as he pursed his lips and blew a long jet of smoke toward the ceiling. John’s head thumped back against Sherlock’s chest, one arm winding around Sherlock’s waist in an effort to remain on his feet. 

 

“You are beautiful, my John. You carry the marks of a warrior.”

 

Another deep drag, another long, slow pull on John’s erection. When he tapped the ash away this time, his teeth grazed John’s jawline.

 

“You like to watch me smoke. You like watching me put the cigarette between my lips.” He suited action to words, sucked lightly several times in succession as his fingertips danced along John’s length, letting the words carry the smoke out of his mouth. “You like to imagine my lips sucking and pulling on your body, my breath blowing over your skin.” 

 

John groaned out his agreement. “Christ, Sherlock...yes.” The long, hard line of Sherlock’s erection was pressing firmly against the small of his back. 

 

Pale fingers plucked the nearly spent cigarette from his lips, dropped it into the bowl. His other hand never ceased it’s delicious, tormenting slide. “You watch my hands when I smoke, John, and you think about them on your body.” He other hand, now empty, tweaked John’s nipples in turn, circled his navel, feathered through the coarse hair as it roved downward. John felt his blood rise to meet those fingers, his body thrumming with want, aching to be touched everywhere but especially...

 

“There! Yes, God, yes, touch me there...” his words faltered into a deep groan as Sherlock cupped his balls, weighing and rolling them with the precise delicacy of his elegant hands, his middle fingertip flickering over John’s perineum. 

 

“This is what you think about when you watch me smoke. This is what I think about when I look at your scars.” His hands were moving quickly now. John desperately held back from thrusting into Sherlock’s fist. The scents of smoke and lust, arousal and tobacco, overwhelmed him. He shuddered, gasping out ‘yes’ and ‘god’ and incoherent sounds of pleasure and longing. Sherlock hummed approval, whispered praises and encouragement as he watched John in the mirror. “Look at yourself, John. Look at the magnificent warrior. Watch yourself.” John looked, watched Sherlock’s hands working his body, saw himself trembling in Sherlock’s arms, watched his erection lengthen and darken until he came with a shout, spilling over Sherlock’s hand in the glass. Sherlock squeezed softly in rhythm with his pulses and then cradled him in a gentle hand until the blue eyes drifted shut. When John’s knees threatened to buckle, Sherlock eased him over onto the mattress before awkwardly stripping off his own trousers and pants one-handed. 

 

“You like to watch me smoke, because you like to watch my fingers. You imagine them doing this, don’t you?” he quickly worked the wetness from John’s climax over his own arousal, kneeling on the bed and stroking urgently. John stared, the last quivers of his orgasm still running through his body as Sherlock chased his own orgasm before John’s stunned gaze. 

 

“Sherlock...yes...that’s gorgeous...I’ve wanted to see you...to watch you...”

 

“I can feel you watching. Your eyes are so heavy on my skin. I need...oh...John...I’m...”

 

“Yes, that’s it. Let it go, now. Let me watch you. You’re amazing, incredible.”

 

Sherlock threw his head back with a groan, spattering his release over John’s stomach and thighs before collapsing onto his heels. John watched in silence for a moment, then pulled himself up, wrapped his arms around his lover, and tugged him down to lie together in a sweaty heap. For a time the only sound was Sherlock catching his breath, John’s hands sliding slowly up and down his back. Finally, John murmured drowsily, “You’re right, you know. Your hands, your lips, the way you move when you’re smoking, it’s incredibly sexy. But I still wish you wouldn’t. I hate to think of losing you any sooner than I must.”

 

Sherlock hummed against John’s shoulder. “I suppose I could try quitting again. But...”

 

“Yes, love?”

 

“There’s one left. Just one. It seems wrong not to finish the pack.”

 

“Hmmm. Well, if it’s going to be an Official Ceremonial Last Cigarette, I suppose we should do something...special...to mark the occasion.”

 

“What do you have in mind?” Sherlock arched a brow against John’s shoulder.

 

John chuckled, dragged the spare blanket up with his toes and draped it over them.

“I’m sure we can come up with something suitable.”

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Come At Once community over at Livejournal, to the marvelous prompt 'smoke and mirrors'. Minor edits since posting there, primarily for word choice and flow.


End file.
